


remember this

by shatou



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: (not really because i don’t even know how to write that but just be warned there are vibes), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blindfolds, Bottom Anakin Skywalker, Crying Anakin Skywalker, Dom/sub Undertones, Fuck the Noise out of Anakin Skywalker's Head, Light Bondage, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Service Top, Top Obi-Wan Kenobi, but if you like pain then go ahead this can be canon compliant, i refuse to believe this is canon compliant because that is Too Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatou/pseuds/shatou
Summary: “Dreams and visions are both susceptible to being polluted by other imbalances.”In which Anakin seeks reassurance in retribution and Obi-Wan gives him everything.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 26
Kudos: 250





	remember this

Obi-Wan sits up in bed.

He stares into the darkness, disturbed, breaths raking up in speed, brows dotted with cold sweat. His body acts as though he just had a nightmare, but he feels none of the terror that is supposed to go with it. The images he saw in his sleep were slippery, amorphous, draining from the liminal space before his mind's eye as soon as his consciousness resurfaced. All he is left with is something ominous, like the tail echo of a cut off scream, like the wafting almondy scent of poison in a too silent room. The Force swirls around him, almost foreboding.

Then a presence bursts forth in the Force, drawing near at record speed, a signature brighter than shooting stars and more familiar to him than his birth constellation. Obi-Wan barely flicks on the light before his door wrenches open. Anakin stands at the doorway, golden curls fuzzed into a soft golden halo around his head, sleep-tousled from head to toe. Yet there is none of the rumpled softness that usually comes with groggy late mornings on days off. Anakin's eyes are wide and wet, his lips blanched for how tightly he's pressing them together, his metal fingers threatening to rip through the fabric of his shirt. His alarmed expression is as sharp as a pained hiss.

"Anakin." Obi-Wan acknowledges his presence rather than greets, slowly rising to his feet. He approaches his former apprentice with open arms, trying to smooth out his frown lest Anakin thinks it disapproval. In lieu of a perfunctory _Is something wrong?_ , he sets a hand on Anakin's shoulder, and breathes a sigh of relief when Anakin leans into it instead of flinching away.

He strokes down Anakin's arm, slowly fitting his fingers to Anakin's palm. By now Obi-Wan has a fair guess as to whose nightmare he was being an audience to, and his chest does not loosen one bit. The fact that the terror was so potent it leaks through Anakin's mental wall would be enough to keep him up all night.

"Come," he says, firmly taking Anakin's hand. Anakin holds his hand back, and a brief pinprick of gentle joy—not unlike what one might feel when an infant curls their tiny grip around one's finger—shines through the gravity of the moment. It fades as soon as he notices just how badly his old Padawan is trembling. It's so reminiscent of the Anakin of over ten years ago, a boy too small, too light, and too life-worn for his age, shivering between cold space and burning night terrors.

The bed dips under their weight. Obi-Wan sets a hand firm on Anakin's back, waiting for a moment for all to settle before he rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades. Anakin takes in a breath, and it sounds more like a dry sob.

"Master, I…" A pause, like Anakin is gathering himself. His face is ashen, but his ears are flushed, and his lashes tremble, and his quick heartbeat seems to echo in Obi-Wan's chest. "I saw… you."

In his dream, it goes unsaid. Obi-Wan simply nods. The things a Jedi sees in their sleep can be dream or vision or a mix of both. Anakin has been burdened with dreadful images one too many times. "I see. Would you mind telling me about it?"

Anakin's shoulders tense. Obi-Wan wonders if that's the wrong question to ask, or if he asked it the wrong way. He dips his head to try and catch Anakin's gaze. There's no smoothing out the wrinkles of concern on his brows this time. "You don't ha—"

"I saw you die," Anakin says quickly between two skipped breaths. His signature is drawn in on itself.

"Anakin. You don't have to force yourself if you don't feel comfortable," Obi-Wan reminds, hushed but firm.

Anakin shakes his head. "You don't get it," he says, pained rather than petulant. "I have to—I need…" He's battling with himself, it seems; battling between the desire to show and the fear of telling. 

"Perhaps I don't," Obi-Wan concedes. He has to remain calm and dependable, he tells himself, tells his thumping heart. "In which case, I'll wait. I'm here for you."

Silence wedges between them, rough and coarse as a sloppily balled up piece of paper. Anakin turns his head and returns his gaze, glassy-eyed, brows knit tight. Light catches softly on the glossy line of scar tissue on his right eye, in stark contrast with what darkness sunken beneath his lower lashes. His parted lips regain some color, mostly where they're bruised by his own teeth biting down so harshly. He speaks, and hair stands on the back of Obi-Wan's neck.

"I saw myself killing you."

It isn't the content of his words that pours ice down Obi-Wan's spine. It's the way Anakin said them; the hollowed, harrowed tone of his voice; the way his eyes are dazed, almost glazed over, like those of a blind seer. Obi-Wan swallows and wills his sudden nausea away. This is no time to be weak. There is never any time to be weak, not for him.

He reaches for Anakin's hand. He's not expecting Anakin to be receptive to touch now, and so he does not feel so crushed when the young Knight breaks away from him in a huff of disbelief. Guilt bleeds from his mental shields.

"Anakin." Obi-Wan tries again. "Dreams can be intrusive. It's hardly something you can control."

"It didn't feel like a dream," Anakin says flatly. His throat bobs.

Obi-Wan sighs. "I am not dismissing the possibility of what you saw being a vision of—"

"It was your death, Obi-Wan! I _killed_ you!" Anakin springs to his feet. He has the look of a hurt thing that is trying far, far too hard to seem frightening, to drive off a threat. But what threat? Obi-Wan watches him, and every sharp breath Anakin lets out is a shard of glass to his heart. "I came at you with a lightsaber. I felt like I hated you. Like I wanted to—to make you suffer." And all the while Anakin's eyes are glued to a nondescript spot on the ground. "When I woke up I… I thought…"

He wipes at his eyes. The mattress creaks as Obi-Wan leaves his spot, rising to his feet, taking a step forward.

Anakin backs away.

"I don't hate you, I _don't_ ," he says, hoarse and fretful, his eyes despondent and his tone pleading as though he sees a hostile jury standing in Obi-Wan's place. His arms hug his own torso, fingers digging furious lines into the folds of the fabric.

"I know you don't, Anakin." Obi-Wan keeps his arms open, his stance neutral. "I trust you."

"Why?" Anakin demands, in a tone that says _You shouldn't_ , daring Obi-Wan to take it back. Obi-Wan would not.

"Because I love you."

Anakin gapes at him, stunned. The words have never come easy for Obi-Wan; it takes him time, takes him the right moment, takes coaxing for him to let the sentiment through. Yet now he says them as if he will never get a chance to say them again, sincere and solemn.

The wariness seeps from Anakin's posture; he's still tense, but no longer tightly strung, shoulders slumping in defeat and plea. "Master, I don't hate you," he repeats it like an incantation, to ward off whatever dreadful part of himself that he thinks is there. Obi-Wan nods as he slowly steps closer. "I don't want you to die, I don't want you to suffer, I love, I love you so…"

"I know, Anakin. I know." Obi-Wan stops at less than an arm's length. Anakin doesn't flinch away this time, though he looks like he wants to. His hair falls into his eyes, small curls plastered to his forehead damp with sweat. Obi-Wan doesn't advance, even as his chest pangs with the need to comfort Anakin, the urge to chase this pain away. Yet perhaps that is where he fails; he cannot give Anakin the retribution that he seems to want. He does not have the power to defeat the threat that Anakin so dreads: that which is Anakin's own self.

He watches, and he waits. He keeps his arms open to Anakin, because he would always. He tries to stay his mind from anticipating Anakin's next words; as much as he likes to be prepared, this is no game of chess. It seems almost demeaning, to deem Anakin so predictable. And perhaps Obi-Wan wouldn't be able to predict him now even if he tried, he thinks. He softens even his breathing, when Anakin hesitantly peeks up from under his lashes.

"Can I… hold you?"

Obi-Wan's heart breaks. Anakin doesn't _have_ to ask, and yet. He looks doubtful, bashful, fearful; unsure and unmoored in bitter yearning. His arms are still wrapped around his body even as he makes the request, Venus-trapping himself from reaching for warmth.

He steps close enough to feel the febrile heat radiating from Anakin's skin. He brushes his fingers along Anakin's forearms and circles them about his wrists, gently prying Anakin's arms open. He takes Anakin's hands, carefully holding Anakin's gaze, his motions unhurried and predictable as he slowly places those mismatched hands, so dear to him, on his sides. He lets another moment pass in silence, lets Anakin's fingertips tremble on him while he reaches up to brush Anakin's hair from his face. _I'm all right, see?_

Anakin's hands move in minuscule, discrete touches, like he is feeling his way forward, as if he is reacquainting himself with the ability to touch his Master without causing the least of pains. Obi-Wan smiles when they finally slide and clasp and his arms close in a perfect embrace. Anakin yields to his touch as soon as Obi-Wan cradles the base of his skull. He leans their foreheads together, and—Oh.

Eyes closed, head bowed, Anakin sniffles. His eyelashes darkens and thickens, as tear after tear brim and roll down his cheek. "I can't imagine…" He sobs. Obi-Wan wipes his cheeks, but even his hands are too slow for the overlapping tracks. "...Can't even imagine h-hating you, Master. I don't under _stand_ why I did that in my—in my—"

He struggles. Obi-Wan cups his cheek and tilts his face up. Anakin's eyes flutter open, tear-bright. Their eyes meet for a deliberate moment, before Obi-Wan leans in and kisses his lips tender and light. Anakin makes a shuddery noise, clutching onto him. 

"You're tired and stressed, dear one," Obi-Wan whispers and presses a kiss to his forehead. Anakin sags on him, arms tight and eyes wet against Obi-Wan's neck. "Dreams and visions are both susceptible to being polluted by other imbalances." He continues to ply Anakin with kisses—to his crown, to his temple, to the tip of his ear—while stroking his hair. "You need rest. Would you like to stay here?"

Anakin shivers. "I don't know what I'll do when I'm asleep," he admits, voice wavering and watery, "next to you."

"You won't," Obi-Wan says from his heart. Anakin has sleepwalked a few times as a child, but it was never serious, and he certainly never wielded a lightsaber during. "I promise you."

"You can't be sure about that."

Obi-Wan pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts, kneading his fingers against Anakin’s nape. Anakin gives a sigh, one that seems a little less strained; and an idea comes.

"How about I wear you out," Obi-Wan murmurs, voice dipping into a velvety baritone, "until you can't do anything but sleep?"

——

"Master," Anakin gasps. His back arches from the bed, held back by the silken restraints on his wrists. The fabric knot could have sprung apart with the slightest nudge of the Force, but Anakin doesn't do any of that. Obi-Wan smiles and kisses the space between his eyes, through the dampened fabric of the blindfold. _“By concealing your sight, you heighten your senses.”_ Adoringly he traces his free hand along the side of Anakin's face, from the roots of his hair to the divot in his chin. Anakin's beauty is not merely the planes of his chest or the bold lines of his jaws; it lies in the intricacies of his mind, in the openness of his heart, in the way his voice mounts its high notes of pleasure, in the way his body undulates.

"I'm here," he answers, fingers curling up again. Anakin's lips glisten with saliva as they part in a moan. His flushed cock is arching impressively, despite the come still fresh on his taut stomach, despite the afterglow shivers that have yet to subside and that are already pillowing onto new shuddering waves of arousal. Obi-Wan does not touch it, only pushes his fingers in slowly, prodding, deliberately missing the spot. Anakin throws his head back in a whine, and Obi-Wan mouths down his throat.

"I'm right here," he says against damp skin, tasting the salt of sweat as he kisses down and down, from Anakin's pulse point to the hollow of Anakin's throat. His hand slows to a halt, fingers slightly crooked up, snug against where Anakin is most sensitive. Anakin draws in a dry sob, and "Master," and " _Obi-Wan_ ," but he doesn't plead.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, beard scraping against Anakin's collarbone. "Use your words. _Ask._ "

Anakin breathes sharply. “Mark me.”

Whatever word his lips are shaped to say next is cut short by a moan, as Obi-Wan sucks just over his clavicles. He teases the skin between his lips, teases it to a blushing purple; his fingers thrusts up as he bites down, blooming bruises and love bites down Anakin’s chest. His movements quicken and so does Anakin’s breathing, smooth movements against ragged sighs. Anakin’s arousal bursts white hot against his signature and deep within his being, sending a pulse to his already hard cock. Obi-Wan has to stifle a groan against the hollow of Anakin’s stomach. He drags his tongue over the spend and Anakin gasps again; his hips jerk, and Obi-Wan pins them down. Anakin mewls as he takes his cock shallow into his mouth, tonguing the slit. His fingers press up and curl, back and forth, faster and faster and _faster_ as he feels the telltale tremor beneath him, as Anakin keens crescendo hoarsely and his pleasure climaxes like a supernova.

Obi-Wan drinks him down with little reservation, holding Anakin in place with both the grip on his hip and the pressure of his fingers, until the very last drop beads atop his tongue. He pulls off and licks his lips, eyes half-mast over the sight of Anakin spread open, panting, sun-kissed skin littered with bright bruises, an open book even with his eyes behind a band of cloth. He kisses the inside of Anakin’s thigh, then the junction with his hip, then the top of his iliac crest, slow and sweet as he withdraws his fingers—and despite all the gentling efforts, Anakin still gives a low whine. He’s too sensitive, Obi-Wan thinks, nosing at his jaw. “Are you alright?” Anakin has to be tired enough by now. “Would you like to rest?”

“I—” Anakin trembles. Obi-Wan kisses his neck with a reminder to _Breathe, dear one_. “...No.”

Obi-Wan pauses. He props himself up to take a better look, running his hand through Anakin’s hair. Fingers spread out and palm flat against his scalp, Obi-Wan briefly considers lulling him to sleep via the Force—Anakin is open and malleable enough for that now. But it seems rather unfair, and to be truthful, he could hardly deny his love anything. He leans their foreheads together, reaching for Anakin’s mind. “Are you certain?”

Anakin nods vigorously.

“Very well.”

He draws back, and back, and away, until none of him is touching Anakin any longer. He slicks up his cock, yet remains there on the mattress, doing nothing but watch as Anakin’s confusion and impatience thickens in the air, until he’s tugging at his restraints and tensing his thighs and visibly struggling not to free himself. “Master? Where are you…?”

“I’m here, Anakin,” is his evergreen reply. Anakin sounds so lost, so fretful, where he needn’t be. “You know that I am here.” He slowly approaches, hands planted on the bed, letting Anakin feel only the heat of his body and nothing more. “I will give you what you want, dear one.” He strokes a feathery fingertip up Anakin’s chest, delighting in the audible sigh that follows. “You need only ask.”

“I want to feel you, Master.” Anakin blushes deeper, if that is even possible. “I want you inside me.”

In answer, Obi-Wan spreads Anakin’s legs and lines them up. He groans as he slides into the tight heat, slow enough to set all of his nerves alight. Anakin’s moans climb in pitch, and when Obi-Wan bottoms out, he stays the quiver of his own hips, breathing heavily.

“You have me,” he says in the stillness of the moment. He strokes Anakin’s sides, gently framing his hips to make a point. “You will take me before I take you. Can you do that?”

Anakin arches up and grinds his hips down, knocking the breath out of Obi-Wan. “ _Yes_ ,” Anakin says, not sure whether as an answer or interjection. He rolls his hips with what little leverage he has lying on his back, rocking back and forth. He clenches in pulses and Obi-Wan finds himself unable to stifle his moans. Anakin’s desperation brings out Obi-Wan’s own, and every push of his hips, every needy attempt to bear down sends galvanic jolts through Obi-Wan’s entire body.

“Good.” He rubs a thumb over Anakin’s nipple, trembling in his own efforts to keep still. He’s already beginning to thrust forward little by little—even his self-control is not boundless. “You’re doing very well.”

Anakin whines high in his throat. “Master, I—” He grinds down again, clenching hard, his hips stuttering in place. His blindfold dampens in dark spots. “I want you to—to fuck me until I pass out.”

“I sense you have more to say.” Obi-Wan manages, breathlessly, kissing the tears that are beginning to slip through fabric.

“ _Please._ ” Anakin sobs. “Please, Obi-Wan, I need you.”

 _As I you._ He’s already so close to the precipice, but he’s sure he can outpace Anakin’s sensitive body. He drives himself into Anakin, sliding home with every thrust as he has wanted to since the first time the Knight came. Star swirls before his eyes, sweat rolls over his cheeks, and Obi-Wan can’t care to hold back his sounds—not when Anakin’s keens drown out his moans. He closes his eyes and opens his mind.

 _Remember this, Anakin._ His projected words dig into the wet cement of Anakin's mind, ensuring they will stay etched there once the tears have dried. _Remember how I touch you_ —he runs his hand down Anakin’s thigh— _how I serve you_ —he snaps his hips into Anakin in hard but steady strokes— _how I love you._ Arousal spools goldenly between them, not sure whose is whose as their signatures blur together in bliss. _You know you would not do anything bad to me. Don't you?_

Anakin wails, head thrown back, back tight as a bow. His hands wrench free from the silk ropes only for his arms to wrap around Obi-Wan’s neck, soft and hot and utterly needy. “I love you,” his words slurs out between high, broken moans. “I love you, Obi-Wan, _aah_ —”

The sight of Anakin coming untouched, the branding heat of his shaking body, the incandescent pleasure bursting in their bond—it’s too much. The thread snaps, Obi-Wan dropping his head as he spills deep inside, giving tight little rolls of the hips until the movements are so minuscule they come into a loving standstill. He heaves in a breath and gently pulls up the blindfold.

Anakin’s eyes are shut, eyelids trembling. His parted lips are not quite slack with the corners pulled up in a sated smile. The curve of his lips widen when Obi-Wan kisses it and smiles against it and nuzzles and kisses it again. “Tired?” 

“Mnngh.”

Obi-Wan chuckles, peppering kisses all over Anakin’s flushed, tear-streaked face, smoothing back his hair. For how incoherent he is, Anakin’s arms still loops firmly around Obi-Wan. There’s no hope for cleaning up tonight, but he hardly minds—one must be allowed to be messy every once in a while, someone wise once told him. One certainly must, he thinks, brushing damp locks from Anakin’s face, admiring the peace that finally graces his features once more. Like a storm has cleared, all that is left is light.

 _I love you._ Anakin’s errant thought drifts from the fog of his sleepy mind to Obi-Wan’s. Of course, of course. “I love you too.” He sets a hand over the steady rise-and-fall of Anakin’s chest. His heart beats against his palm, matching his pulse.

Sated and secure, Obi-Wan lies down in bed.


End file.
